


Until the End of Me

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 5.14 – Castiel finds Dean outside</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the End of Me

Castiel stands at the door to the panic room for an indefinite amount of time, staring at the floor and feeling more shaken than he can remember ever being before. Part of it is his concern for his charge, who has been cracked down the middle and left to try and piece himself back together – a task that’s nearly impossible for anyone, let alone a hunter who has been through what Dean Winchester has. Part of it is Sam, who even now screams for his brother, screams for the angel, screams for _anyone_ to help him as he suffers withdrawal from the demon blood.

Part of it is the fact that he himself feels so very, very shattered. He’s known for some time that his grace is fading, more and more rapidly as time goes on. He’s nearly as close to human now as it’s possible to be and still retain some minor amount of grace. But somehow, truly experiencing such a base human need as _hunger_ has driven it home.

He’s going to Fall, and there isn’t any stopping it anymore.

He is terrified, afraid to take a step in any direction, afraid that if he _moves_ , he’ll knock loose what remains of his power, and fall and shatter into a thousand pieces of helpless, _hopeless_ humanity.

Famine has clearly left them all broken in ways that Castiel hadn’t known it was possible for a _human_ soul to break, let alone that of an angel.

He takes a breath, clenches his hand into a fist, and steps away from the wall. His legs are miraculously steady as he climbs the stairs, as he navigates the house, as he walks out into the cold night air, and as he makes his way to where he can see Dean standing.

Seeing the hunter eases something in him. For all that he’s lost, for all that he sometimes has no idea who or what he is anymore, the one thing he has never lost is the ability to see Dean Winchester’s soul. It shines as vibrantly – as _beautifully_ – now as it did the very first time he saw it, a beacon in the darkest place known to man or angel.

He takes a few more steps forward, but freezes when he is able to clearly see what Dean is doing.

Dean Winchester, who has never believed in God, who fights against the whole of the Host of Heaven, is praying.

He is asking God for help.

And Castiel _knows_ he won’t receive an answer, knows that God is missing from Heaven and doesn’t seem to hear anyone anymore. But somehow, just the act of Dean praying at all builds him up and shatters him all over again, in whole new ways, and he makes a small sound in his throat.

Dean tenses immediately, swinging around and looking at Castiel as though the angel has betrayed him by being here in this moment. His eyes are lit with agony and embarrassment, hopelessness and faithlessness and a million other things that make Castiel long to reach out to him, to try and take away all of the pain he’s suffered in his life, though he knows he cannot.

“What are you doing here, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice rough. “Somebody needs to keep an eye on Sam.”

“I…” He knows he had a purpose coming out here, knows that it seemed vitally important he find Dean, because he was about to spiral out of control and didn’t know how to stop. But Dean had come out here to escape him, to escape _everything_ , and now he can’t remember why he couldn’t leave the hunter in peace.

‘Peace’ being a relative term, of course.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, his eyes turning down.

Dean makes a sound that could be a snort of derision or a huff of dejected laughter and takes a step closer to the angel. “What did you _want_ , Cas?”

Castiel can’t miss that the way Dean says it, the way it sounds like Dean is the one wanting something, but he doesn’t know how to ask, doesn’t know how to tell the hunter that he’ll give him anything it’s still within his power to give.

Another step forward, and now Dean is right in his space, staring him in the eye, and Castiel is feeling claustrophobic for the first time in his existence, too close, too laid open, too _everything_. “What do you _want_ , Castiel?” Dean growls, and that’s when Castiel lunges.

The first kiss is brutal, hungry, all power and force and _taking_ , no finesse because he doesn’t know enough to have any, doesn’t know enough except to know that he _needs this_ , and that he needs to _give_ this. One of his hands fists in Dean’s jacket, tugging the hunter closer, close enough that they’re completely pressed together, and now Castiel can feel Dean hard and hot against him, can feel how he needs as well. His other hand reaches up to Dean’s hair, gives a gentle tug before smoothing down and curling around his neck, changing the angle of the kiss.

Their mouths slide against one another’s, warm and wet and open, and Dean’s tongue darts in to tangle with his. One of the hunter’s hands squeezes his ass through the trench coat, and he moans low in his throat, shoving Dean backwards until he hits the Impala, angling himself so he can press a knee into Dean’s crotch, and now Dean is the one making nearly inhuman noises.

Castiel pulls away from his mouth, moves to bite along his jaw, down his neck as he grinds his hips into the hunter’s and Dean responds in kind.

A moment later, he has to catch his breath because Dean has grabbed onto him, spun him forcefully, and slammed him back so that it’s he who’s pressed to the car. At his back is cold metal, and at his front, brutal heat, and the feeling of both is excruciating and magnificent, and he thinks for a moment he could gladly die from it.

“Dean,” he whispers, his head thrown back as Dean attacks his neck with suckling kisses. “Dean, _please_.”

Everything stops. _Instantly_. Very slowly, as though afraid he’ll break Castiel even further than the angel is already wrecked, Dean pulls away. His eyes are wide, frightened, grief-stricken. “No,” he says, his voice trembling. “No, I can’t do this.”

Castiel reaches out. “Dean…”

“Haven’t you heard?” the hunter whispers. “I’m broken, Cas. I’ve got nothing to give you. I’ve got nothing _at all_.” He turns to walk away, and that little part of himself that Castiel has been clinging too so tightly falls to the ground and shatters. “Just go,” Dean says. “Please.”

Castiel wants to tell him that this was never about Dean giving to him, wants to tell him that it was about _Castiel_ giving to _Dean_. He wants to tell him that he has nowhere to go, wants to tell him that he’s afraid if he leaves, he won’t be able to get back to them.

He says none of these things, though.

Instead, he leaves, nothing to mark his disappearance but the soft sound of wingbeats and the defeated sob of the man he leaves behind.


End file.
